


Karma Killer

by Rinna



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Espionage, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Romance, Sentinel/Guide, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinna/pseuds/Rinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Bond's death, when the only thing that seems to be able to help the Sentinel agent pick the pieces back together is a bond with a fellow Guide, the role of his mate gets passed to his quartermaster.<br/>Q has never had a reason to use his powers as a Guide, but if he wants to help 007, not only does he have to cross his own boundaries, but also break through to the stubborn agent in time for both of them to defeat the enemy closing in on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Q looks out of the window of M's office.

The wind is strong enough that he can see clouds travel across the sky, fat and grey with rain that won't fall until later, just in time to shower on people leaving their offices, making it a miserable way home.

He looks at people.  
Women clutching their trench coats tighter around themselves, men hurrying across the street at the red light, their phones by their ears.  
He looks at buildings.  
The towers of St George Wharf, high and mighty above all the others like the companies they represent, all the shops and offices.  
All of it is perfectly mundane, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to remember, but he looks at people and he looks at buildings and he sees lines of code, he sees targets, he sees potential weaknesses.  
If he concentrates he can sense it, too, even through the thick, bullet-proof glass, the feeling of a threat advancing, only a warning for now, but clear enough to all those it is intended for.

"You said it wouldn't be like this," he says quietly, and instantly regrets it.  
It's childish. M isn't asking him for help. She is ordering him to do his job.  
Q half expects her to say so, but she just keeps looking at the back of his head, immobile behind her desk.

Silence stretches between them.

"The situation has changed," M says, cold and factual, but Q can feel a spark of something stir within her, maybe it's regret, maybe even fear, but it's as close to an apology as he's going to get.

He glances at her from the corner of his eyes and slowly cracks his knuckles, twisting one finger after another with his other hand.

"You said he has bonded before," he says carefully, careful of M's temper, and for a moment he contemplates saying more, but M will know what he is implying.

"He came back here out of his own free will," M answers, dismissive, "Are you saying that after losing most of my agents' identities, I should just send away one of the best men I have?"

Q looks back outside.  
The first few drop of water have started to slide down the glass.

"He's not the man you used to know."

**

Q avoids thinking back to the time before MI6, mainly because now for what might be the first time in his life, he feels in control for most of the time.

Not everyone in this world becomes a Guide or a Sentinel, so there are great expectations for those who do.  
It could be anyone, all those people we previously thought to be just a little above average, smarter, more determined or more talented than the rest, but mankind likes to study itself, and after decades what seemed to be sheer luck before, an arbitrary caress by Mother Nature's hand, had become quantifiable, had a name.

Sentinels, often athletes, high-ranking military officials, political leaders, business moguls, but also terrorists, serial killers, dictators.  
Born with heightened senses and often extraordinary physical ability, they were also often dominant personalities of no uncertain power.

Guides, often teachers, doctors, writers, musicians, researchers, but also madmen, silver tongued agitators, revolutionaries.  
Gifted with extraordinary empathy, instincts and inside, Guides were always aware of their power to support or stop Sentinels.

They were two sides of the same coin, and yet no amount of research could have predicted the consequences of a Sentinels and Guides meeting and forming relationships, both work-related and romantic.  
Society began to shift, and what had once been an accident became the norm. You would have a Sentinel as the President, with a Guide at his side as the Vice-President, Sentinel and Guide fashion design pairs or teams of police men.

While brilliant collaborations between two Guides or two Sentinels were also not unheard of, society considered them to be less effective, and for many the Sentinel-Guide pair became like a dream to aspire to, a concept often depicted in fiction as a union of undying love and ultimate completion.

Bonds were later decided to be of two kinds: Regular bonds or natural or "perfect" bonds.  
A bond of varying intensity could form between any Sentinel and Guide, but the natural bond was the rarest form and had a fairy-tale like quality to it, two people who were able to feel each other's emotions across miles, who gained strength from being together but would die without the other.

All observed cases of natural bonds were of a romantic nature, which for some people, especially the more cynical ones, made their existence even harder to believe, something that could be a mere product of the media.

The MI6, like many other government agencies, relies on the strength of Sentinels as much as Guides, Q knew as much when he joined. He was briefed on the importance of the calming influence of a Guide to Sentinel field agents, and the reasoning made perfect sense.

This however, is completely different.

Q only knows one reality of being a Guide.  
He remembers being the frail, sickly son to very ambitious people, remembers those times as a child when they would hold dinner parties at Rosebud, the family mansion that was centuries old, while he lay in bed with eyes wide open, thoughts and sounds invading his head, and he remembers how his parents' ambivalence towards him shifted into something triumphant as they had him tested, just because that was what rich people did to determine the right school for their children.

Q also remembers the training that he received, and how hard he worked at it once he found out that this was his way out, that it was more than just satisfying his parent's expectations.

Now it feels like M is trying to sign his new-found freedom away again by making him bond to, oh the irony, James Bond, agent 007.

Up until this point, Q had been satisfied with being one of many, working away in the Q branch without being assigned to any field agent in particular.  
He had been told James Bond actively resisted being helped or subdued in any way, and curiously, M just let him be, as if he had a free pass to ignore every regulation ever to exist.

Q does of course know the rumours of how 007 bonded with a treasury official called Vesper Lynd, probably everyone at MI6 does, and now this is the reason he's here, to stop Bond from being a ticking time bomb.

Q has never been bonded, but he's learned everything about the importance of the bond, and how it is crucial for any bond, natural or not, to grow.  
This is why M should know better than to ask this of him.  
Bonding is not like becoming friends, it means becoming an entity, and since he has never even met 007 in person there is no way of telling whether Q will actually be able to help him.

The fact that Bond hasn't died when he lost Vesper Lynd suggests that it was by no means a perfect bond, but the damage is there in any case, and it can't be easily fixed.  
M isn't asking him anything untoward, but she is hoping for their partnership to result in something neither Q nor Bond can guarantee.

Since acquiring his license to kill, Bond has already died twice over, first losing his bond and then his life.

It would be merciful, Q thinks ruefully, to just let him rest.

**

For situations such as this, the first impression is important, which is why Q is supposed to meet 007 at the National Gallery to introduce himself.

When he was told, Q gave a sigh and mumbled about the MI6 being fond of unnecessarily grand gestures, but it wasn't in his place to argue, and so he left the comfort and familiarity of his own lab to meet the former supposed best agent of the Secret Intelligence Service, now unable to even shoot straight.

Q is early.   
It's still early in the day, plus it is not a weekend, so the museum is not swarming with tourists as it usually does.  
He wanders leisurely through the halls, hands in the pockets of his coat, and tries not to fiddle with his tie.  
Smart, he thinks, smart and in control.  
Q did feel ready for this, but for some reason he feels a hint of nervousness, so he keeps walking through the corridors until he settles in a quiet corner, only two people gazing at paintings while the chatter from the tour group in the next room seems to be swallowed by the sheer emptiness of this room.

Q sits down on one of the benches, closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.  
This is a good place, he decides, and takes a moment to blanket himself in calm without influencing anyone else.  
When he opens his eyes again, they fall on the painting in front of him, and it almost startles him how appropriate it is for the situation he finds himself in with 007.  
'The Fighting Temeraire' by Joseph Mallord William Turner, a great British classic, and yet a painting so sad that it almost hurts him to look at it.  
The Temeraire, once a glorious war ship, is being hauled away from the sunset, its sparkling brilliance visible in the sky.  
Q can't help wondering how one would have taken apart a war ship in Turner's time.  
Would they have treated it with the respect it deserved, taking it apart slowly, appreciating its history, or would it have been ripped apart, finally defeated?

Q doesn't want to be the wrecking ball to Bond's pride, but he has pride, too, and this is certainly not what he expected of his work for the MI6.  
He enjoyed prattling around in Q branch, enjoyed having a team under him even, though it took more time than he anticipated to get used to people calling him "Sir", people who were in awe of his abilities rather than seeing him as a lanky nerd who despite being a Guide seemed to refuse projecting his emotions.  
He had been perfectly fine with it when Tanner explained to him that keeping the Q branch in check would be his only responsibility, because of their special status, the Sentinels of the SIS commanded a certain respect for their decisions, and if 007 didn't want to work with a Quartermaster then by God, no one would force him to do it and actively face the risk of him walking out.  
Q still assisted Quartermasters one to six in their duties, and it wasn't like anyone questioned his judgement despite not having his own double oh agent to take care of, and anyway, he doesn't like to think of it as taking care of a person, they were all grown men and women.  
According to M however, James Bond, his double oh agent, needs his help because he is unable to help himself, and somewhere deep down Q wants to see what being a quartermaster really means.

"Tell him where to find me," he tells Tanner over the comm link and waits.

He can feel it when Bond enters the room, the distinct change in the air when a Sentinel is present.  
By the way 007's eyes are searching the room, Q guesses that he too, must have felt that the Guide was in the room with him, but just like before, there are only a few people on the corridor fastidiously studying the various paintings.  
Q turns his eyes away from Bond, avoids eye contact. It might be a tad silly to refuse to reveal himsel straight away, and it might come down to coincidence rather than Bond knowing that he is the Guide he is looking for, but while he keeps his eyes on the painting of the Temeraire, he feels Bond approach slowly and finally sit down next to him.  
He does however nothing to acknowledge the fact that the person sitting next to him is supposedly his quartermaster, so Q just starts a conversation, says the first thing that comes to his mind.

"Always makes me feel a little melancholy...A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap."

Bond must be familiar with that feeling, Q knows, and he doesn't have to try and extend any of his senses to see how true it is and how much it must sting. Ever since Bond became a 00 agent, he has slowly been dragged away from the sun, maybe because he takes it harder than most, maybe because he just lives harder than the others.  
He has sure seen his share of deaths, and the man that sits next to him is an old war ship already, with all the wear and tear of one.

"What do you see?" the Quartermaster asks, because all he can see is Bond.

"A bloody big ship" is the gruff reply, and Q feels the restlessness in the Sentinel, the constant hunt for something, anything to make him feel like he belongs somewhere.  
Q realises he has dug too deep when Bond gets up to leave him. His posture gives away his distrust, his bewilderment at this strange meeting.

"007," Q says abruptly, "I'm your new Quartermaster."  
He hasn't felt this confident in a long while.

**

The old problem however, persists - Bond doesn't want to be taken care of, he wants to return to active duty, when Q knows, knows because it's his job to know, that there is a part of him that doesn't want to return to service at all, a dark part of his soul full of doubts and regrets that make him a tough nut to crack.

Q however has a reason for his decision to try and help him, no matter how sudden his decision may have been. He felt it when 007 looked at him, a slow spread of warmth at first, then a tug within his chest as if he was fighting against an unseen grip. Sings of a Sentinel unconsciously reaching out, mapping him, acknowledging him as a Guide and finally, a possible match. Bond's mind has already told Q that he may be able to help, only Bond has yet to realise it.  
Q wouldn't use this knowledge against him.  
He has to gently support Bond, not forcefully change him.   
For now, he means to help his agent. He can worry about the bond later.

It begins with Q vetoing M's decision to rush 007's reinstatement tests.  
He knocks on her massive wooden office door and swallows twice, pushes his glasses up his nose and waits for permission to enter.  
M sits at her desk, clouds travelling past her again, and Tanner is bending over her shoulder to look at a piece of paper she's signing.  
She looks angry, more angry than just her usual steely gaze and the furrowed brow, she looks irate in as far as she lets on with her control still firmly reigned in.  
That is what M is good at, Q thinks, ruthless calm, as much of a paradox as that is.

Tanner as a guide would never be able to instil any peace in her, it is not his job, but Q has seen and felt him try countless times, forever doomed to being a brilliant agent but a sub-standard Guide.

Q knows this is a bad time to interrupt, but just like any other case M put him in charge of, he is going to do this to the best of his ability and in a way he can be satisfied with.

"What do you want?" M asks without looking up.

"I met with him and decided to help," Q says as if it makes any difference. When he is ignored, he stands a little straighter.

"We can't send him out like this."

"We have no time to waste," she gives back curtly, still without looking at him.

"If we send him into the field like this, he will die!" Q shouts, and freezes when M stops appraising her files, with Tanner looking back and forth between them.

"I know you have a lot to deal with right now," he continues, softer now, "But he is still one of yours. You have ordered me to take care of him, and that's what I will do. Let him stay here to train, to find a new flat, to get his life back on track while me and the others agents in Q branch investigate possible leads to the bomber. I can't fix him, but I can make him better again. Better than he is now."

M's lips slowly form a very thin line, but she finally nods and when she finally tells Q to just get to it he's not sure whether he has pushed her towards this decision or not.


	2. Chapter 2

Now Bond sits across from him in the bunker's gym and stares at him with dead eyes, never letting his guard down for a second.

"I got my license years ago. How old were you then?" he says and smirks at Q, but the younger man ignores the bait.

"We are not going to talk about that again," he says coolly, "I've always been here, you just decided you didn't need me."

"So now you're lonely and decided to come out of hiding?"

Q keeps himself from huffing in indignation. Guides liked the feeling of being needed, everyone knew that, but Q had done his job, and very well at that, even before the events in Istanbul had forced him and Bond together.

"Anyway," Q goes on, "You know what's going to happen."

"Yes," Bond replies slowly, "I have to make you clear me for active duty."

"You have to work at yourself to be in the right shape for active duty," Q corrects, not losing a beat,  
"I'm sure this will be an acceptable task, seeing as you have done it once before, we will stick to your old training regime but adjust it to your age accordingly."

Q tries to smile, but with the way it comes out he might as well not have made the attempt, and Bond's sour expression seems to mirror his own.

"How can you possibly be of any help with that?"

Q pauses to find the right words.

"I will monitor your progress."

As expected, Bond immediately sees through the vague phrasing.

"M would not waste the head of Q branch on something as simple as this. Where have all the low-level pencil pushers gone to?"

Q feels himself getting ever so slightly impatient, which is what he dislikes about himself, but is usually much better at suppressing, but he would be damned if a slightly rocky start to a working relationship would make him lose his composure straight away.

"Look," he says calmly, "You know what I am, so acknowledge it. You need me for the help I can give you. I won't be brazen enough to assume you can admit this straight away, but you have worked without the help of a Guide so far and it has gotten you---"

"How dare you," Bond interrupts him, and his eyes narrow as his expression hardens. He is trying to intimidate, Q knows this, he has seen the signs before, and he feels it like an invisible hand closing around his throat, all the vehemence with which Bond is suddenly trying to push him away.

"How dare me? How dare you," Q grits out, and the sensation dissipates with Bond's surprise, "After all it was you who thought he was better off alone. You thought you had it all under control, and now you are disrupting the work of all the Guides around you with the sheer unhappiness you exude, so come on, up you go. Do your push ups or whatever it is you agents do."

He leaves Bond, fully expecting him and do nothing, but there is no way of forcing a man as stubborn as a mule, even if it's for his own good, and so he gets someone in the Q branch to cover for him before he heads out, dialling Eve Moneypenny's number as he exits the tunnel.

"Would you like to meet me for a coffee?" he asks without so much as any preamble.  
"It's not a social call, is it," Eve asks him, and her soft sigh indicates that she is still feeling none too happy with herself despite Bond's resurrection.  
"No."  
"Then I'm coming."  
Q nods to himself with grim satisfaction, he wouldn't want to waste her time with the kind of friendly yet ultimately useless palaver supposed to make her feel better when they both no that no small talk about the weather or the city council ever could.

They meet in a small, unassuming coffee house near Elephant and Castle because Q hates Starbucks and it is hard enough as it is to find a café in zone 1 or 2 that is not swarming with either tourists or men in suits talking extra loudly about business in an attempt to impress everyone around them, an attempt that fails each time, no less.

Q has already occupied a table when Moneypenny gets in, even without his big jacket he is easy enough to see, his colleagues tend to joke it is because he tries so hard not to be seen.

Even though no one ever wants him to, Q would freely admit rather being on his own because as a Guide it is hard to withstand all the feelings and thoughts people tend to unwittingly assault him with.  
No one ever found a way for Guide's to deal with their gifts like that, nothing but the usual, only mildly effective ways such as meditation or pure strength of will, Sentinels can just go and spray themselves with some hormones to not go crazy because of all the noise and the smell of big cities like London, so as long Q does not have something similar at his disposal, he will do what he can to have a little peace.

This however, is almost a necessity. He is trying to do his job, and as much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, he is quite out of his depth with someone like Bond.

He waits until Eve has ordered her latte, occasionally throwing her glances she answers with tired smiles, before it seems time to come to the crux of the matter.

"I need you to tell me about the incident with Bond," he says, adding a hasty "please" when Moneypenny raises both her eyebrows at him.

"It's M's fault," she burst out, as if it was something she'd been dying to say but would never have said within MI6 walls. Her vehemence doesn't surprise Q, but her sadness does, the lingering feelings of guilt and shame at what has taken place, now apparent only to him.

"I wouldn't have taken the shot, but she made me. It's... I don't know how she does it, if that's what it means to be a Sentinel, to have no defences against a Guide's wishes, but it felt as if she was convincing me only with this sense of... urgency, trying to tell me that she was right without using any words at all. I tried to rationalise it, thinking that she probably didn't have much of a choice, but she did. She she thought the data was more important than 007, and in the end she got neither.  
As a Guide in her position, she can't afford to be wrong but well, she was.   
If I were Bond, I wouldn't be back here protecting her."

"Yes, yes you would be," Q says softly and watches her take a big, angry gulp of her coffee.  
For all intents and purposes, M is the closest to their own Guide these unbonded Sentinels have. She has picked them and watched over them as they were being raised, made sure all of them received a good education and provided a second chance at life to most of them - each 00 agent would immediately protect her with his life, as neither of them know if they would even still be alive without her.

"I want to..." Q pauses, searching for something that won't sound quite as pathetic as what he is about to say, but he comes up short, so he settles for the truth. "...see who Bond belongs to. Maybe he is entirely his own man, but maybe he needs us as much as we seem to need him. That's why I need to find out what it felt like, that day."

Eve smiles at him. "No second hand account will do, I reckon. I wouldn't want to imagine what it was like. There is already no way for any of us to describe what it feels like for a Sentinel just to fire a gun, to feel it hit the target..."

She stops herself. Some wounds are still too raw to be prodded at, and for all that she smiles and takes her punishment, Q can see it now. M's focus might be on Bond's well-being, but perhaps Moneypenny isn't any better off.  
Eve grabs both of his hands with a smile that is now soft, gentle.

"I appreciate it," is all she says to him, looking at him as if she's just read his mind, as if there was some part of it that he accidentally let her know, and Q thinks about Bond the guilt settles deep within his stomach.

**

The closer Q gets to the bunker, the more clearly he can sense it, a feeling of anger, no, not so much anger as indignation, mixed with deeply settled determination.  
What slightly perplexes Q is that he can't rid himself of this feeling, as if he is meant to feel it, as if someone is challenging him.  
It is when he gets back to his workspace that he finally finds the source of all these muddled emotions: contrary to his expectations, Q finds that Bond is not only still in the building, he is also training, his shirt soaked with sweat, and his arms trembling unsteadily with each time he lifts his weights.

"You started already," Q says as he leans against the door frame, still trying to clear his head.

"Well, not all of us have time for a three-hour coffee break with Moneypenny," Bond grunts, and the other man doesn't have to ask him how he knows, the scent is probably still all over him.

Q wants to say something, something smart and evasive that will help him out of this situation, but he knows quite well what Bond is accusing him of, running away and hiding somewhere to sulk, and somehow it seems to be quite true.

Bond sets down the weights with a loud clunking sound and wipes his face on his forearm.  
When he is done, he turns and just looks at Q, like he is expecting them to have an argument, but his posture is weary, like he is not ready for any more fighting at all.

Maybe M had known. Maybe there had been a design behind putting a broken Sentinel together with a Guide who had so far rejected the idea of truly aiding anyone, because right now Q can feel every little twinge in the agent's muscles, he can feel every breath he takes as if it is his own. In the back of his mind he wonders if this is what it means to be a Sentinel, to be hyper aware of all of your surroundings all the time.

"Please don't overwork yourself for the sake of impressing me, 007," he says, but it comes out somewhat breathlessly,  
"...since I'm really not all that easily impressed."

Bond smiles at that, feral, all teeth, and Q is instantly reminded of the hare and the snake, the fact that even in his weakened state, Bond holds a certain power over him just by being a Sentinel, possibly only just by being who he is.

Q extends his hand.

"007," he says firmly, and he mentally locks away all the fear and excitement he just let Bond be a witness to by his smell and his tell-tale movements,  
"I am your Quartermaster. I am the head of the MI6 Strategic Division, and I also oversee your training according to Guidance Protocols."

Bond takes his hands, his smile widening.  
"Q," he says, "I'm your charge."

Their handshake is like the closing of an electric circuit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean it's been almost 3 years? *coughs* I have no idea what you're talking about.

Q is practically guided to MI6 headquarters by a strong feeling of irritation.  
By the time he gets to the security gates at the tunnel, the feeling has become a slow pulse, like the ebb and flow of of a particularly nasty headache.

As much as he tries not to be affected by external feelings, he can no longer tell how much of the annoyance he now feels is actually his own, but he will make sure to direct all of it at Bond as soon as he comes across him, especially when he notices how skittish the other Guides within the building have become, all of them severely disturbed and unable to work to their full potential.

Q heads towards the rudimentary gym Bond has been training in for the past two weeks, knowing there will be no way he can even attempt to finish any of his tasks before he has found a way to calm his charge down considerably.

He abandons all his noble intentions and decides it's best to just try and strange Bond to put both of them out their misery when the other man very nearly throws a dumbbell at his head.

“Can I, for the sake of every guide working here, please ask you to at least try regain some composure?” Q barks, already exasperated. Just when he thought him and Bond were getting somewhere, Bond seems to have remembered that tight-lipped hardass was supposed to be his act.

When he looks at Bond however, truly looks at him, what he finds is not so much raw anger but frustration. He has been hard at work in order to be let back out into the field, but most of the work has been physical, and even in this area the results are not showing fast enough for Bond's liking.

“It's not your fault,” Q tells him tentatively, approaching Bond like one would an agitated wild animal.

“I don't care!” Bond roars, finally throwing the weights down. “We are losing time, what with me being not allowed back out like some grounded child and M out there in Parliament squabbling with politicians!”

“Okay, yes,” Q murmurs, still slowly approaching, his mind furiously at work to find a way to do what he is best at, solving complex problems.

Finally he reaches Bond, cautiously touching his shoulder.

“I do have an idea,” he says, “It is however not exactly something MI6 would welcome at this point.”

There is something wild in Bond's eyes at that, something that tells Q he might have said exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time, but what's been said has been said, and there is nothing for it but to press on.

“You have to let me be your eyes and ears for this,” he warns, his voice pitched low, “You have to trust me. No one has been at the bombing site yet, and I am hopeful identifying the explosives used might prove an advantage in identifying the person behind all this.  
We can't do this now, it might prove better to wait until M and Tanner have left the building.”

Bond exhales, then raises an eyebrow at him.

“You want us to wait until Mommy's out for the evening?”

Q can feel fissures of energy run through Bond like live wires.  
It makes his next words unintentionally heated.

“Mommy and Daddy and everyone else. Just the two of us.”

He only blushes when Bond's grin widens almost impossibly.

“Tanner,” he says suddenly, and before the words have registered with Q, M's Guide opens the door, clearing his throat awkwardly.  
Q scrambles out of Bond's space as if bitten, and the amusement he feels directed at him, intentionally, makes him recall the distance between him and Bond just seconds earlier, his ill-conceived flirtation, and the fact that Tanner as a fellow Guide will be able to pick up on the strange note of mischief in the room.

“M wants to see you,” he says, “Both,” he adds when only Bond moves.

M has just returned from yet another meeting discussing the future of MI6, and judging by the dour look on her face, it didn't go too well.  
She asks for routine status updates and estimates for Bond's healing process, but there is another man in the room with her, one Q has never seen before but who listens to all of the classified information that passes between them without batting an eye.

“You already know where the lost hard drive is,” he blurts, interrupting M mid-sentence.  
All eyes are now on him. He hates it.

“Why aren't you sending Bond to confirm? Why aren't you sending anyone to confirm?”

M looks angry with him, but she is scared, he can tell.

“If you know who it is, wouldn't it be better--” Q is coolly informed that he is speaking out of line, as if he didn't know that, but surely something needs to be done, he thinks frantically, why is everyone so agitated yet so utterly paralysed? When has it become so difficult to disentangle himself from other people's feelings? When was it ever in his character to become positively outraged on someone else's...

Bond, who has been standing next to Q the whole time, suddenly gives his wrist a squeeze and glances over. Q returns the look, uncertainly, feeling as if he just landed from a long fall, his spine and feet tingling with the imagined impact.

“M,” Bond says, inclining his head. He nods at the stranger, before pulling Q out after him.

“Do you intentionally treat me like a child or can you just not help yourself?” Q hisses as him out in the hall, after Bond has finally let go.

“She is keeping information from you, how does that not make you angry?”

“It's what she does. I've gotten used to it long ago, since she also isn't terribly good at it,” Bond replies, but doesn't grin at his own quip.  
“What worries me is how worked up you got. As a Guide, shouldn't you be able to defend yourself better?”

Q wants to be childish and tell Bond how it is his fault, how work used to be nice and predictable before 007 turned up and needed someone to babysit him, but he doesn't say any of these things, as they are essentially pointless and he knows it.

The truth is that Bond has been able to influence him far too quickly, far too easily, and now he has the emotions of a wild card agent to deal with, as well as his own battered pride.   
As an MI6 employee, not just just any odd pencil pusher, quartermaster to several of the men the security of the United Kingdom depends on, he's usually better than this. Guides may be a rare thing, revered as legends in some countries, but there are still enough of them around that MI6 on the whole can afford to be picky.  
Q is not some kid unable to deal with his empathy, he has been trained for this since age eight. Which is partly the reason he can't even stand to speak to his mother on the phone anymore, hasn't in years. He has been groomed to success, perhaps not unlike Bond. Difference being Q not living out his phase of rebellion at an adult age.  
He knows what to do in case he won't be able to control himself. He is expected to seek out a counsellor out of his own accord, but how will he possibly be able to take care of his own head and that of another person?

“We will stick to the plan,” is all that he settles on as response.

It's not hard for him to be the last to leave the office, he frequently is, so no one bats an eyelid when it gets later and later. During busy times, several Q branch agents are required to stay overnight, but ever since the MI6 lost so many agents as well as many resources, none of them really see a point.  
Q hopes, even though he knows in the back of his head that this might be a terribly inappropriate wish, that whatever he and Bond will discover can elevate all of them back to proper agents rather than glorified clerks handling classified paperwork.

M attends a lot of security conferences these days, politicians normally blissfully unaware of what it takes to keep a country safe questioning her methods, trying to pressure her into handling her work he tells him differently, sharing more of it, as if having as many people as possible debating one issue has historically ever been a good idea.

He doesn't know where Bond disappeared to, at a guess it was not home to catch up son some sleep and a bit of TV, but while Q would be flagging if it weren't for the aid of copious amounts of coffee, Bond looks wide awake, eager, even.  
Q would almost like to grouse at him for not broadcasting the useful percentage of his emotions.

Both of them are down by the supply lockers, and he watches the agent inspect and load a small SMG, inspecting it carefully.  
Q nudges him, wordless pointing towards a hammer and a coil of rope he has laid out on a table.  
Bond snorts at him.

“Are you also going to ask me to wear a hard hat?” 

Q points at the hammer a little more insistently. He doesn't stop until Bond gives a small sigh and attaches bot the rope and the hammer to a utility belt he ropes over his waist over his coat. Q thinks it a much more sensible choice than a weapon, after all how high is the probability of someone waiting in the ruins of a taped off building on the off chance an agent decides to go on a treasure hunt?

He follows Bond through the halls and opens the main gate to the tunnel for him, a sudden gust of cold, wet air blowing in his face and ruffling his hair.

“The main entrance is too damaged for you to get in. You will have to climb until you find a way inside,” he tells him.

Bond smiles at him, his eyes bright.

“Now that's the kind of workout I can appreciate.”

Q watches him put the ear piece in before getting into the boat. He feels like saying something, “Good luck”, or “Be careful”, but it sounds odd even in his head, so he thinks better of it. He is acutely aware of this being their first mission together, and already he is breaking the rules. Maybe it's something Bond just inspires in others.

Once the gates have closed with a heavy, booming sound behind the retreating boat, Q shuffles back to his computer, where a three-dimensional blueprint of the MI6 building is waiting for him.  
Through his ear piece he can faintly hear the roaring of Bond's motor boat.  
007 will have to go around the building, so that random passers-by on Vauxhall Bridge won't see him scaling a building.  
It wasn't a perfect plan - while the side Bond would be coming from was off the main road, he would have to be careful, as people at the offices nearby would still be able to spot him, as well as any cars driving along Albert Embankment.

Eventually Q can hear the sounds of the boat's motor dying down.

“Starting the climb now.”

“Acknowledged.”

Q listens to the sloshing sounds of the Thames lapping at the boat as Bond jolts it, the little huff of exertion as he begins bulling himself up rough stone walls.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bond says, “Did you go to one of these special Guide schools?”

“How do you know about that?” Q asks him, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“I know you generally think me a brute, but I do sometimes read things, you know.”

Q pauses, contemplating whether or not to lie. Usually there is not much point in lying to a Sentinel, none at all if you are in physical proximity of one, but should he lie, Bond might just take the hint and drop it.  
For some reason, he settles on the truth.

“It was a boarding school in Penzance.”

It was a quiet place, the smell of salt always heavy in the air, not far to go, but far to look, far out into the endless horizon stretching across the sea.

“It was lonely.”

“How so?” Bond asks, stone crunching beneath his heels.

“It was just...” Q searches for the right words to describe the tense silences, the boring lessons in empathy and conflict resolution, always listening, listening, but never asking questions.

“I think it's a common misconception that Guides just have a predisposition for being introverts. Kids just want to be kids. They need to run around and play football and shove each other, not learn meditation techniques after maths. I was told that my gift meant I always had to be there for others.”

Bond gives a contemplative grunt.

“Well, it sure doesn't sound any nicer than being home-schooled,” he says. “But it's not that different from Eton, in theory. I remember both football and the occasional fist fight.”

Q has to smile.

“Instigated by you, I presume.”

“There we go again with you thinking me a brute.”

For a while longer, Q simply listens to Bond climb, until the agent finally says, “There is a big enough hole here for me to enter.”

“Whereabouts would that put you?” Q asks him, frowning at the blueprint.

“First rotunda.”  
Q checks the blueprint against the location, rotates it, and is once again acutely thankful for not having to be an agent, out there grasping bits of ruined foundation, getting whipped by the cold winds of a London evening in autumn.

“It... I mean, it's your decision,” he says, “But it's not ideal. Reports place the detonation point of the bomb at the eighth floor. You can either keep going around from outside, or enter. I don't know how much damage you will encounter.”

Bond sighs, mildly annoyed.

“Climbing on,” he declares.  
“You know, maybe we should have loudly declared our intention to have me go out here, because this would definitely have passed me the athletics portion of the--”

“Bond,” Q interrupts him, even though he is not sure why. A sudden feeling of dread overcomes him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand and his gut clench.  
“Down!” he cries, only to hear Bond cry out a second later.

“007, what's your status?” he asks, frantically trying to pull up and hack any CCTV in the area that could tell him what's going on. He does so hate not having eyes on his agents, the feeling of helplessness, the knowledge he will never be able to emotionally detach himself in the way some Guides do, almost makes him panic every time.

“Sniper!” Bond shouts back, just before Q can hear him growl a second time.  
“Now there's two of them. I'll try to locate them...”

“Don't focus now!” Q cries, outraged, “What use is that? Do you want to be killed?”

Bond has to see reason. There is nothing he can do with a weapon as imprecise as an SMG against two snipers several hundred metres away, the chance to hit innocent bystanders is entirely too high. While he focuses enough to pinpoint their exact location, he won't be able to move, his brain focusing all its resources on one task only, and not being able to move means death in his current situation.

“I can distract them for long enough so you can get away,” Q says, and begins to frantically hack into the Lambeth area's infrastructure while he hears Bond dodge another shot.

“You're lucky I can hear the goddamn projectiles!” he growls.

“Got it,” Q tells him, and with a last key stroke, all lights in the area die.  
“Emergency electricity is going to come on in a moment.”

“I didn't think I would say this, but I'm really grateful for the hammer,” Bond says, and begins to take it to the building's wall.

Next, several things happen at once – just as 007 breaks through, the lights come back on, and he gives a sharp grunt of pain, before falling into the building, surrounded by debris, landing sharply on jagged edges and broken pieces.

He groans and coughs in equal measure, but no more shots follow.

“You've been hit,” Q notes quietly.

“It's just a strife, I can go on.”

Q ascertains that Bond has made it to the second floor, and advises him to find the staircase to the third floor, which should still be intact.  
It has partly broken down, but still supports the agent's weight, which Q counts as a minor win considering their current circumstances.

“Do you always use your focus as recklessly as you did just now?” Q asks, unable to keep the slight accusation out of his voice.

“I'm a 00 agent, I take risks,” Bond sighs.

“There are calculated risks, and then there's risking paralysis. You've not worked with a Guide before, so at your age, there--”

“At my age, I'm doing just fine,” Bond snaps. “It's always easy to talk about calculated risk when you're the one sitting behind a computer.”

The words sting, just like they were intended to, shutting Q up.

On the third floor, there is a whole in the staircase too wide for Bond to proceed, so he squeezes into past a boulder that smashed through the roof.

“The lift last stopped on this level. If you can enter it, you can use the ladder in the shaft,” Q advises him.

“Oh, that sounds like a marvellous idea,” Bond hisses, not bothering to conceal his sarcasm, but a few moments later, Q can hear him wrestle open the lift's metal doors, which give way slowly and under a lot of screeching.

“I couldn't focus deeply enough, but there were definitely two people shooting at me from within Camelford House. They were waiting for me there.”

“How could they have known?” Q whispers, more to himself than to Bond, who is busy trying not to slide off the slick glass panes of the lift in an attempt to reach the trap door on the ceiling.

007 reaching the top of the lift almost seems like a distraction, breaking the deep focus Q had unintentionally entered trying to make the logical connections and recalling buried memories that could tell him how two snipers had known of their plan when even M had not – clearly he had focused too deeply.  
Bond jumps up.

“What are you doing?” Q asks, once again fighting his agitation. “You clearly know the lift could come down.”

“Well, the ladder is too far up and my arms stings from being shot at, so excuse me for not jumping quite as high.”  
He jumps a second time.

“007,” Q warns him in a low tone, and then a lot louder at his third attempt, when the lift started its descent just when Bond manages to grab onto the ladder.

“You knew, and you weren't even hiding it,” Q says, “I could feel you gearing up for your final attempt.” He is panting with nerves, his heart going a hundred miles a minute, but Bond doesn't fare much better, if Q graciously ignores the fact the madman clearly loves the adrenaline that comes with near-death situations.

Climbing up the ladder to the eighth floor is blissfully devoid of any further surprises.  
Q, who can feel himself getting sleepy with all the sudden spikes and ebbs of adrenaline wearing on his system, scowls when his coffee turns out to be long cold.

“Do you still have enough energy to focus on the bomb fragments once you find them?” he asks Bond, as if the agent would offer any other answer than “of course”, even if it were only for sheer pride.

“Why, are you in for a bit of late-night meditation?”

His tone makes Q blush, and he clears his throat.

“I was just expressing concern, no need to make fun of me,” he mumbles.

Still, he worries. Bond has already expended most of his focus on making his muscles work quicker and harder, and currently Q can hear him trying to wedge open the closed lift doors on the eighth floor with the hammer, something not to be attempted without considerable muscle focus either.  
He knows that for Guides using focus is even more dangerous, seeing as it is mostly used on mental processes which, if abused, can cause hernias and other serious neurological disorders, so it is important to really know what one is dealing with in order...

“I know how they knew how to find you!” he shouts in sudden realisation, just as Bond curses under his breath as he spots someone on the ruined roof above him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Back so soon? What's that? You could be asking me the same? Yeah, I'm as surprised as you.  
> I hope everyone had good Christmas holidays and isn't currently too preoccupied with the Force Awakens to read this ;)

Bond shoots at the man above him, somewhat blindly, but Q doesn't listen in, he gets out of his chair in a rush and almost trips over his own feet in his hurry to make it to the server room.  
He doesn't have any of the Sentinel talents that would come in handy now, no heightened sense of smell, no way to tell what has been subtly shifted, but he can recognise intent, and so he begins to rip the panels of giant, cooled server towers open to look inside.  
It takes him several tries, until he finally finds one with a device the size of a box of matches planted onto one of the mainframes.  
Cursing, Q runs back to his desk to get a screwdriver and a set of pliers, all the while accompanied by Bond's staccato breathing as the agent seems to be wrestling with the unknown intruder.  
Q forces his hands to still as he kneels in front of the server tower's innards, wires and connections overlapping, making the package difficult to reach. Losing any data would be a blow to the MI6, seeing as they do not keep any copies for security reasons, and so he nudges cables out of the way with pliers and reaches past where he can see in order to unscrew what he hopes is nothing vital. He is software specialist, but not a technician, but he has to either remove this or take the entirety of MI6 off the net.   
He nearly clips through a set of cables when he hears 007 cry out in pain, and Q can swear he can hear the crack of a rib all the way through the line. Q listens for a while longer to angry growls and grappling, until Bond declares his opponent knocked out.

“You're hurt,” Q says quietly, feeling a tiny screw fall into his outstretched palm.  
“I've had worse,” is the answer, naturally, no matter how strained it sounds.  
“Listen, whatever you do next, whatever you uncover, don't let me know, the line isn't secure,” Q tells him. “We have been hacked.”  
“Under your watchful eye?”  
Q cannot for the life understand how this situation would seem a great opportunity for a joke, but then he realises Bond is probably trying to distract himself.  
He hears him get up with a groan and shuffle around.  
“I will have to abort the connection” he says apologetically, “I won't be able to help---”  
“Right now you'll help me a lot by now talking,” comes the gruff reply.  
Bond may be no Guide, but he can tell when he is being doubted. Q didn't mean to hurt his pride, but it doesn't seem a difficult task to accomplish.  
He carefully removes the last two screws and takes out the device, then goes back to his computer to assess the damage to the system, all the while listening to Bond's breathing slowly evening out, concentrating to forego the needs of his body in favour of his mind, to focus all his energy, or whatever it is that makes them so different, heightened parts of their minds to the prime of human achievement.  
He immerses himself in the familiarity of code until he is certain the biggest risks have been removed, but when he re-establishes connection to the internet and Bond, there is still only even breathing on the other end of the line.

 

“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” M says, and with the way her frown impossibly deepens she has understood just fine, “You risked paralysis by pushing past your abilities to focus in order to accomplish a task you knew I would never clear you for?”  
“We have uncovered vital information that will actually get us somewhere, and have removed another potential threat in the process,” Bond counters, but he is quite obviously lacking his usual fire, what with the way he heavily leans against Q, having scooted all the way up to him in his chair.  
Q spent a terrible few hours down in the basement cold to his bones with fear, thinking Bond had indeed managed to paralyse himself, but upon using up all his energy, the agent had crumpled in a heap and fallen asleep amidst the rubble.  
Q had no reason to use it against him, but he had to swear to Bond never to tell anyone, or fear the consequences.  
Despite a several-hour nap on the freezing concrete floor of a bomb building, the nap that had gotten them discovered in the first place, as Bond had been unable to return before M (who was always the first to arrive unless someone beat her to it by staying at the office overnight), 007 now droops heavily against Q, too tired for any witticisms, barely putting up his usual protest to just about anything M has to say. Q takes pity on him.  
“Tanner,” he says lowly, “Could we...?” He motions towards Bond. Besides M , Tanner is the only person in their makeshift facility with an actual office, an office with a sofa no less.  
Q is sure Bond will try to argue with him about this, but the man is severely tired, tired enough to let his guard down, and with someone out there who has obviously taken an interest in both his and Q's actions, the quartermaster worries about sending him home in this state.  
Tanner may be raising an eyebrow at him now, but Q knows the fellow Guide to be a kind-hearted man, maybe overly so, given his line of work.  
M dismisses them, but as Bond staggers out of his seat, Q tells him to wait for him outside, and watches M silently until he hears the door close. He hopes Bond's hearing has dulled enough and the other man would know better than to eavesdrop.

“Did you know he would be in this state?” he asks, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice.  
“If by 'this state', you mean did I know Bond would not be able to use his focus correctly, then yes. Despite what you obviously may have thought when suggesting he go out climbing around, I had a good reason for keeping him away from the field.”  
Q goes on, undeterred.  
“It's because he has lost a Guide he was close with. Even for unbonded pairs with a strong enough connection this can be near-fatal. It's nothing I can just replace like that.  
The device I found is a simple decoder meant for transferring data. Unlike a hack, which requires a live internet connection, it cannot be so easily spotted. The spot I found it in however, suggests someone with knowledge of our internal infrastructure.”  
“Are you suggesting we have a mole at the MI6?”  
Q quickly shakes his head.   
“Not necessarily. The MI6 employs contracted IT service technicians for routine server work, which is an amazing oversight considering the data we handle, if you ask me.”  
“I don't.”  
“We did likely have a third-party mole, so to say. One of the technicians. The fact I am explaining this to you means you didn't know this either, but someone studying us with the intent to gain outside access could have. I mean, not many people park their business van near the Thames to then get on a boat in order to enter an underground facility. This is a whole in our security, Ma'am. We continued things we way we did when we had a public building, and someone was waiting for a misstep like that. Someone to whom letting a bomb go of in your office without you in it was probably just a game. Bond stops such people. By putting a bullet in their heads.”

Having said that, Q sharply turns around to leave the office outside which, lo and behold, Bond has indeed been waiting for him.

“I want to look at your cuts,” Q says. It's a thinly-veiled excuse, since none of them look quite badly enough to need treatment.  
“I know you wouldn't like to do it down in Q-Branch, so I asked Tanner if we could use his office.”  
Surprisingly enough, Bond grunts his assent, before following Q through the corridors.

Moneypenny has her desk nearby and sharply looks up when they come close, probably because by that point Bond is swaying slightly. Q opens the door with his key card and gestures Bond inside, then ambles back towards her.  
“So you haven't seen him like that before either, I take it,” Q asks her, unable to hide his disappointment. “I hoped you would be able to help me out here.”  
“Well...” She smiles at him apologetically and begins to fiddle with a pen.  
“I know what's causing this, at least I have an idea. Not sure it'll help you, though.”  
“Please tell me,” Q says immediately, leaning far enough across the table to slightly crowd Moneypenny in.  
“You got attached, huh?” she teases, and he reflexively wants to deny it, if only not to serve as a cheap joke, but finds that he can't.  
He must look as lost as he feels, because the agent takes pity on him.

“Look, unbonded Sentinels draw on everything around them. That's not a bad thing as such, but it means added strain on Guides. I'm guessing that so far whenever Bond had to use his focus, there were Guides around to draw from, and so he never learnt to pace himself. In situations where no Guide is to be expected, any agent will receive backup, mostly in form of another Sentinel. It was like that when Bond and I went to Turkey together.”

“That's because the Guides here don't go into the field, isn't it?” 

“Exactly.”

Moneypenny just looks at him, waiting for something.

When he gets what she's implying, Q nearly trips over his own feet.

“No. No!”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Absolutely not. I can't go into the field! I can't even get onto a plane!”

Moneypenny just looks at him with lips pursed and legs crossed, unimpressed by his vehement protests. She shrugs even as he continues to splutter.

“Well, then I suggest you find a method to teach him how to stop giving two-hundred percent.”

Q doesn't want to be childish, but right at this moment, he would like to stomp his feet and complain.  
Ever since Bond appeared, Q's life of relative ease seems to have transformed into something he has no longer any control over. Taking care of 00 agents is a high-pressure job at times, but he has parameters he can study, gadgets he can build in order to handle different situations.  
Certain things are his responsibility, and certain things are not, and he likes it that way. He likes how so far, emotion has never gotten in the way, how most of the problems he had were in code.  
There were things he could rely on to go a certain way again and again, routine gave him safety even in a world where routine meant dealing in national security issues  
Now he doesn't even know what to start with.

“You seem to have a lot more faith in me and I do right now,” he tells Moneypenny quietly.  
She gets up in lieu of an answer.  
“Let me show you something. I'm going out on a limb here.”

Still playing with her pen, she walks over to Tanner's office and gestures for Q to unlock the door.  
He does, and a glance inside shows him Bond, fast asleep on the couch, one arm above his head, the other resting on his chest, looking more relaxed than Q has ever seen him, or thought he would, for that matter.

Moneypenny opens the door a little wider, and then without a word of warning throws the pen right at Bond's face.  
Q wants to shout at her, but instead he finds that in the moment he has been holding his breath, the pen has bounced away as if it has just hit an invisible wall, a safe distance away from 007.  
When Q looks back at Moneypenny, her grin is wide and impossibly smug. She closes the door.

“You, my dear friend, have been shielding. The fact you did that unconsciously is... promising, don't you think?”

Promising isn't quite the word Q would use.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! I'm so happy. I finally have a complete outline for this thing, which means it is definitely going to be finished. Yah! "Wait a minute," I hear you say, "Does this mean you have been flying blind until now?" TOTALLY! I'm not an organised writer. So this, and the knowledge this fic isn't going to take another 3 years to finish, is a huge deal for me. Also I can already start being excited for that point where the rating goes up! ;3

Bond is curled up on the couch in a fetal position, which seeing as he is probably just used to sleeping in small or tight spaces on missions should not look as adorable as it does.  
Q sits down heavily next to him, and not even the jolt of the couch as the cushions give way under his weight is enough to even make the other man stir.  
Q yawns as it catches up with him that he too has long surpassed twenty-four hours awake. It must be the sudden silence, punctuated only by Bond's soft breathing, that makes him feel this tired, this quickly.

Above all, he is angry at himself. He cares about all of his agents, but a shield does indeed hint at a strong level of attachment, one he would not have anticipated himself.  
He sighs. As much as the old rule of 'no emotional attachment' is pure idiocy in an environment as dependent on teamwork in near-death situations as the MI6's 00 program, he feels like everyone always goes a step further for James Bond. Of course that includes M. Q has a strong suspicion that her worry for Bond set Q on the course he is on now, and that worry is probably far from professional.

“It's because you can't take care of yourself properly, isn't it,” he mumbles, stretching. “I could have been a simple systems engineer, you know. I could have just ignored all that talk of bonds and Sentinels, and just gone and found a normal job. Wasted my potential.”

He allows himself a grim smile, thinking of one of his instructors in Penzance who always looked to him like a witch with her round spectacles and her crooked nose.

“They will make me travel with you. I can't even get on the bus without feeling queasy,” he says.  
“Q, for the love of God,” Bond suddenly rasps, scaring the Guide half to death, “In about an hour this door will open and there will be more people asking me about bomb fragments and asking you about... your computer stuff, so until then, could you please shut up and just rest for a while?”

Q gestures helplessly. “I...” “Great.” Without further acknowledgement, Bond curls up again. Q dozes for a while, keeping his legs firmly tucked to himself.

It comes a little different than Bond anticipated: when they do wake him and Q, the Guide's legs now somehow tucked below his in an unexpectedly comfortable tangle, it's almost entirely to talk about the device he found in the server room, which Q can tell annoys Bond, because he doesn't like not knowing what people around him are talking about, and because he probably thinks, with some indignation, that bomb fragments should take priority over system hacks.

“It's not a situation where force will show the necessary result,” Tanner tells them, pointedly raising an eyebrow at 007, “So in this case, I would like you to simply escort Q. We have identified the engineer who made the changes, and I would like you to talk to him.”

Q nods and swallows drily when he feels Bond's gaze upon him. Tanner tells them that there is a car parked near the bridge they can use, and hands Bond the key. With another nod he then steps away from the door to his office, waiting for the both of them to leave. Q gets up, unsteadily at first, eyeing the creases he and Bond left in the leather couch. Together they step outside. He still feels tired, but also oddly nervous, as he's tried to combat his tiredness with sugar instead of a nap.  
When he looks at Bond, he notices that his hair his mussed on the side he slept on, and that he himself probably sporting a similar patch of flattened hair now. There are also two very faint creases on his cheek. Out of a sudden impulse, Q reaches out as if to touch them, when Bond suddenly turns to him with a tired grin.

“So I'm your chauffeur now. Somehow my career in espionage is not going the way I thought it would.”  
Q tampers down the reflexive urge to apologise and just shrugs helplessly. “I'm going to get my bag,” he mumbles, then hurries away.

It's raining when they get outside. Q's oversized wool coat has a hood, but it is blown off his head immediately by gale-force bursts of wind. He curses the MI6 and Churchill's hideout on the bloody river, then the motorboat and finally, is if he didn't do any other day already, the weather. Bond laughs at him once they have safely made it into the car, because his hair looks even worse than usual and the rain has rendered his glasses useless, making him look seconds away from more swearing.  
His laughter, quiet as it is, jolts Q. He has never heard Bond laugh, has never seen him express any humour other than a smirk, any emotion always seeming to break through despite his best efforts to hide them. The chuckle over Q looking like a drowned cat feels like a prize, one he isn't sure he has done anything to deserve. It's odd, because for all that Q has worried about Bond overexerting his body and his state as a man who came back from the dead, he has completely forgotten to think about him as a simple human, a man who could find enjoyment in something simple.  
“Just drive,” he growls, trying to both smooth his wet curls back and dry his glasses on his sleeve, which turns out to be equally wet.  
“I don't know what you're complaining about, Scotland is much worse,” Bond tells him.  
“Scotland?” Q echoes, rummaging in his bag for a tissue.  
“Yes,” Bond says, hesitant, and the tone in his voice makes Q glance at him from the passenger seat, “I grew up there."  
This is not in his file, Q notes, but he can tell this isn't the time to ask about it. Instead he cleans his glasses and watches the silhouettes of people fighting with their umbrellas or waiting uneasily near shop entrances for the rain to lessen, as Bond drives along Vauxhall Bridge Road.

They are past Temple when Q looks at the car's GPS, which has been directing them in its standardised, tinny female voice, and groans.  
“Well, that isn't pretentious at all.”   
Bond frowns. “What do you mean?”  
“We are going to one of these tech companies around Old Street. It's probably going to be filled with kids with an alternative start-up mindset that don't mind someone helping themselves to a few state secrets in exchange for money that could help them get out of flat share.”  
“I hate to break it to you,” Bond says, and that superior grin is back on his face, “But you're not exactly forty yourself.”  
“Well, you don't work for MI6 trying to become the next big thing,” Q huffs, crossing his arms.  
Bond is still grinning, but he refrains from further baiting, and both of them lapse into silence again.  
By the time they reach the nearest parking garage near Clerkenwell Road, the rain has thankfully abated enough for them to park there and walk the rest of the way, and Bond even takes the time to buy coffee and pastries for the both of them, as Q would expect from someone who always makes the time to finish his drink on assignments. He feels like a very cheap date, right now.

It's not the best time to marvel at how even sans suit, and having swapped crystal glass for a foam cup full of watered-down coffee, there is still a certain elegance about Bond. This is him making do, chasing exhaustion away with fat and a bit of caffeine, but he has no problem letting Q see he is in fact not capable of being suave all the time.  
Q remembers his poorly concealed frustration while training, his suspicion when they met not long ago. He absent-mindedly licks some stickiness from his 'dessert' off his thumb, a lemon custard muffin topped with a liberal amount of frosting, and looks forward to returning to his desk to do something he is used to. 

When they finally make it to the company's office, he feels better for having eaten something, still clinging to his warm drink, but he also feels decidedly damp. They are standing in front of an unassuming, low brick building with heavy iron doors, and after Bond has silently surveyed their surroundings, he presses a buzzer, which a few seconds later is answered by the crackling of an intercom.  
“Yes?” rasps a curt voice.  
Bond gestures for Q to speak.  
“Hello, we are looking for a David Baker, as we would like to ask him a few questions about a job he completed for our company a few days ago.”  
“Did you have to come here for that?” The voice sounds annoyed, the question leaving Q somewhat nonplussed. Bond rolls his eyes at him.  
“Look mate,” he says, using that tone of his that really books no argument, “Just open the door.”  
There is a sudden crash audible over the intercom, then it cuts out. Bond starts running immediately, around the building, then clear along the street, where his main obstacles are other pedestrians.  
Q follows, aware he will never be able to keep up, but he feels very light and fast somehow, even though his coat should be weighing him down and the wind is making it hard to see. He feels infused with adrenaline, and he knows with absolute certainty Bond is going to catch up with the young man in the blue hoody running away from him. It's a great feeling, so great he almost laughs when they catch up to the guy due to him slipping on some wet grass in Aske Gardens.  
“I really hope MI6 decides to hire another firm after this, your customer support is terrible” Bond grunts, and this time Q does laugh. There is a slightly manic edge to it. “Told you so,” he gasps.  
Because he is just a kid and not a high-profile criminal, Bond and Q deliver the IT technician to the Shoreditch Police Station, where they question him handcuffed to a bench in the waiting area, a sad sign of the place being overrun and understaffed.

“I knew you'd come. He said you'd be a bit tardy, but he told me to tell you he doesn't mind,” Baker says, grinning. He is remarkably relaxed for someone who can look forward to several years in prison.  
“Who's he?” Bond asks calmly.  
“I don't know his name. Didn't need to.”  
“Because he paid you enough not to care?”  
The answer to that one is a scoff. Q can feel Bond starting to vibrate with impatience.  
The nonchalance isn't feigned, he can tell, which in itself is nothing too surprising, people at the end of their rope like to act cocky as a sort of last hurrah. What disconcerts him however, is that he can feel nothing. No fear, no bravado. There is a surprising lack of emotional impact, as if the guy is mimicking his own feelings.  
“I did it because he asked me to,” Baker says, and Q gets up abruptly. He twists the other man's face by the chin so he can peer into his eyes. There is no pupil movement whatsoever.  
“Bond,” he says urgently, “This man has been compelled.”  
Baker laughs at this.  
“Just so that he could have her all to himself.”  
“We've been tricked,” Bond growls, “We were supposed to leave. 'Her' is M. She is on the way to her hearing right now. We need to get there as fast as possible.'


	6. Chapter 6

“Explain this to me,” Bond says when they have made it back to the car, Q gasping for breath and sweating in his coat. “How did I not know Guides can compel people?”  
“It's basically the next step from what Guides do,” Q tells him, finding it oddly difficult to explain something he just does like breathing most days.  
“We are supposed to direct, to calm and occasionally to amplify. That's generally what Guides do to the minds around them, simply put. A really powerful Guide however could... well, I guess they could amplify themselves.”

Q has to hold onto the passenger door as soon as Bond leaves the parking garage, because he immediately takes the next turn at great speed. He swallows a gasp while Bond swerves the car across a meadow and nearly into the side of a building trying to avoid a minor congestion at a traffic light, all whilst dialling a phone number.  
The dial tone goes out, and someone picks up after two rings. “Bond?” It's Moneypenny.  
“Eve, when did M leave for her hearing?”  
“About twenty minutes ago, why?” 007 looks as if he wants to shout, so Q leans forward towards the dashboard and hurries to ask whether M took Tanner with her.  
“Yes, and two police escorts. I thought it was clear there was no agent needed for this, it's just driving her to court.”  
“There is an assassin, in the court room, with M, right now. Please get there as fast as you can, we're on our way,” Q says, jolted as Bond overtakes several cars without so much as a blink. “The hearing has just started, as long as we can get there before the verdict, it should be fine.” “Whatever gave you that idea?” Bond snaps, taking a turn so sharply he forces cars coming from several other directions to stop immediately. He has to break abruptly to not end up on the wrong lane.  
“Whoever this Guide is, he wants to see her fail first. This person wanted her agents, the place that was important to her, and now he wants her to experience a final blow to her pride and potentially her career,” Q continues.  
“That sounds dramatic,” Bond offers, “Not very practical, either.” “Sure, because the people you usually deal with are all such level-headed individuals.” Q hangs up on Moneypenny after he has asked her to make sure to contact Tanner and take someone in order to secure the premises.  
Meanwhile, Bond is weaving in and out between cars like a maniac, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.  
“Stop that,” Q tells him, feeling a sense of helplessness creep up on him that is definitely not his own.  
“I don't know what you mean,” is the gruff reply, and for a moment Q is offended that Bond would even attempt such a very obvious lie in his presence.  
“It wasn't your fault,” he tries, “We still don't know anything about who's behind this.”  
“Well, _you_ worked it out.”  
Q can feel the venom of the statement, sizzling down his throat like a real thing. “Occasionally it's my job to do just that,” he bites out, the prickle of anger that follows quick and fierce. He feels unpleasantly reminded that while his idea of this partnership has rapidly evolved completely beyond this control, this is not the case for Bond, who still thinks him largely expendable. Still, he has to make Bond understand what it is they are dealing with, or both their abilities to handle the situation will suffer. He quickly learns that for someone who tries to outwardly appear composed to the point of disinterest, 007 is terrible at keeping his emotions in check. His anger and loathing are like a wall around him, a wall that is easy to see for Q, but all the more difficult to breach. When they are five minutes away from supreme court, Moneypenny sends them a message saying that while Tanner has not responded, the building seems to be clear and she has alerted the police staff on site, which causes Bond to relax a little even when there is a red light he can not manoeuvrer around.  
“Compulsion?” he asks Q lowly, eyes fixed on the line of cars ahead of them. “It is the first time I have seen it myself,” Q admits thoughtfully. “There really is no easy way to explain it to someone who is not a Guide. Compulsion is forbidden in The Code Of Conduct for obvious reasons, as is suggestion to any non-Sentinels.”  
“Where would be the difference?” Bond asks. “You really have no idea how Guides work, do you? You must have been trained. You're too good not to have been. Did none of this ever...?”  
He doesn't know how to finish the sentence. “Some things were more important than others,” Bond says.  
Guides are taught that they are nothing without the Sentinels they are supposed to support. Apparently for Sentinels such things do not apply. Before this new bit of knowledge can sink in and hollow him out from the inside, Q makes a decision on a whim, sparked by a wicked thought and the intense need to prove himself, _somehow_. The light turns green but instead of driving ahead, each in front of them starts moving towards the pavement, making is possible for Bond to navigate past. Even as he does nothing for a moment, confused by what has just taken place, none of the cars make to move in any other direction, all drivers sitting inside calmly and unmoving.  
“That,” Q tells him firmly, “Is suggestion. Now please drive, we don't have all day.” Bond narrows his eyes at him, clearly both confused at what he has just witnessed and the image of Q it presents, and it fills the Guide with almost fiendish satisfaction. Bond fully turned to him. “How do you not do that all the time?” It is Q's turn to not meet his eye. “You just don't,” is all he says.  
Once they have arrived, Bond doesn't bother with finding an adequate space to park, leaving his car right in front of the court, alarming a building guard to their presence. As he makes to get out of the car, Q grabs him by the elbow.  
“We do this properly, this time,” he says quietly, and before Bond can protest, he clasps the other man's face in both of his hands, focusing all of his attention on his steel-blue eyes. He gently hushes Bond's confused protests, diving deep into his memories, his feelings, the natural part within his very soul that can't help but sing out to a Guide. He finds something old, held close, and feels Bond try to tug it away from him, but again his calming presence and patience with everything Bond feels allows him to slowly push past.  
He sees a landscape of rolling hills and grassy meadows, standing on the torch of a majestic, stone-built house. Three dogs run out of the house past him, nudging his legs. A sleek black car has parked on the gravel outside, and a short, severe-looking woman in a light brown camel hair coat is standing in front of it. “Come on, James,” she says, “It's time to go.”  
There are other memories, more familiar, the easy weight of a gun in his hand, the moment of weightlessness before a jump from a great height, memories Bond can savour and Q can reinforce.  
A painting of an old warship on its last crusade.  
When Q surfaces, he feels the tingle of lingering intimacy, together with a readiness in Bond's demeanour that hasn't been there before, descending on him with startling clarity and focus.  
Q can see what a great Sentinel he can be, that he is true force to be reckoned with, and feels an answering resolve.  
This time he has led a Sentinel into battle, just like he was always told a Guide should be able to do, even only figuratively. It's an empowering feeling.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry you guys, both for this taking so long and being bite-sized, but I've been carrying the notes for this chapter around for ages and wanted to post at least that much. Over the last few months I have acquired both a full-time job and a boyfriend, leaving ym carefully cultivated existence as a hermit pretty much in shambles. I would advise against it. Still, I hope you enjoy this and I will do my utmost to find some new kind of writing rhythm, as I really want to finish this.

Bond slams through the court’s huge wooden doors, leaving the guard gaping after him.  
“It’s fine,” Q tells him, a risky suggestion, and despite the fact he just told Bond that using his power on others in this way constitutes as a serious breach of code, it just feels good to see the guard stop uncertainly in his tracks before letting the both of them step past him without so much as a word of protest. For the second time within mere minutes, he feels the foreign rush of power course through him. He knows immediately why it might be something to get addicted to. Bond gestures for him to wait, then stands very still, listening.

“Eve is inside,” he says eventually, “Her heart rate is elevated, but she seems to be the only one. Are you sure about this?”  
Q nods firmly. “Whoever planned this knows she would not be a serious threat by herself, and so does she. That’s why she has waited for back-up rather than going into the offensive. It has to be you.”

They are standing in front of the court room door as Bond cocks his pistol. Q puts his hand on the handle, waiting for his signal. James looks at him for a while, uncharacteristically uncertain, but then he nods and Q throws door open wide. There is the horrible sound of a large number of fire arms being readied at the same time, but not, like Q expected to be aimed at Bond: every armed officer in the room is aiming their weapon at M, Moneypenny included. Unarmed politicians are caught in the middle, paralysed by fear.

“Drop your weapon James, please!” Moneypenny pleads, looking as if he is trying to fight her own body with no success. The only people out of harms way, Q notices, are the people in the stands, so that’s where the Guide controlling them must be. No one would be able to control that many people at a distance, he is sure of it, even while he is begrudgingly impressed by the feat. The other possible reaction to the Guide’s power is one he cannot allow himself – sheer terror, similar to what he feels around him, thick and heavy in the room, etched onto everyone’s faces. To Bond the room must be nothing but a sea of elevated heartbeats at the moment, and it will make it too difficult for him to concentrate on the one he is looking for, undoubtedly calm and well-hidden.

Q swallows. He will not guide Bond’s hand, but the silence, the fear is deafening, dulling his senses to the point where he wants to scream in order to provoke some kind of reaction, angry at how a single Guide would possess the ability to taunt them thus. M looks straight ahead, unblinking, defiantly staring at nothing. Next to her, Tanner looks nervous enough for the both of them. Q can tell the other Ma is constantly expending energy to shiel M even though it will do absolutely no good against a room full of shooters. Tanner would not stop shielding his Sentinel even if someone were to threaten him, It is a subconscious action, dictated to him by the bond. In a way neither of them think about giving up even for a second, and it makes Q gather his courage, makes him focus on the point that connects all these compelled people, like invisible threads running together, a web created by a single person.  
Trying to reach out for the perpetrator’s mind feels like hitting cold, polished stone, a smooth and impenetrable wall. This man lets Q see nothing but his amusement, the smugness he feels at sitting safely where he won’t be reached. Bond won’t be able to make him out, much less fire at him, and he knows it.  
Q then does the only thing he can think of, and begins to wrangle the Guide for control of everyone, a silent, motionless battle of wills he can’t win, but it is enough to create a distraction. One armed officer turns his head slowly towards Q, then another, and finally, with the Guide to occupied with Q, Bond takes the opportunity to shoot one of them in the leg. The sound startles the Guide, and everyone seems to spring into action at once. M and Tanner duck for safety below the table, civilians begin to scramble for the doors.

As the guide regains some control and the first shots fall, Bond grabs Q by the back of his coat and hauls him to the floor. People start to panic in earnest now, all but trampling each other in their hurry to leave the court room unharmed. Q is lying on the floor with his hands over his head, trying to reach a chair that has been toppled over. The Guide has not regained control over everyone, and so two police men and Moneypenny are now assisting Bond.

When Q looks up, he sees Bond in a far corner of the room, trying to shoot at someone from cover. Without thinking about it, Q focuses on the attacker and makes a big, sweeping motion with his hands, knocking the man to the ground with the aid of an unseen force – his shield. Bond looks baffled for a moment, before his eyes find Q’s. It is then that Q remembers he will have to find the unknown Guide now or risk losing him in the commotion. He risks getting up and feels it immediately, angry bursts of mental energy expended near the door, undoubtedly by someone compelling people to make way. Q makes for the doors when he hears the sharp sounds of fists connecting with flesh and bones breaking. Bond has beat one of the last compelled policeman standing in his way and is about to join Q, but suddenly Moneypenny, who was in a similar scuffle with another man, cries out. Her opponent bends her arm with one hand only, forcing her to her knees. This makes him free to aim at Bond, and he fires three shots in quick succession.  
Instinctively Q brings his hands together next to each other in a shielding motion before pushing them out, and the bullets stop as Bond is throwing himself to the ground. They hover in the air for second, then zoom back, piercing the shooter in his stomach, chest and finally between his eyes.  
He crumples to the ground immediately.

The room is silent once more.


	8. Chapter 8

Q is tired. If he is honest with himself, and at this point he has earned to be, he has never been this tired in his entire life. People in blue, rubbery-looking suits come filing into the room to put up tape and remove bodies and Q isn’t sure whether they have arrived very quickly or time has simply gotten away from him, as if he has been trying to work out a complex coding program and forgotten first lunch over it, then dinner.  
He has trouble focusing on anything for more than a few seconds, which makes him pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to recognise Bond even if he saw him, so Q follows the very strong urge to rest and lies down on the floor, his wavy black locks creating a halo around his head.

When someone taps his shoulder, he is surprised to notice he has closed his eyes, and the cleaners have been replaced with the government’s forensic technicians sweeping the place down while members of the police are taking statements from Bond, Moneypenny and the other people who have remained inside the court room during the shooting.  
The person who has touched Q is a woman with thick blond hair whose cheeks dimple when she smiles at him. She simply feels like a woman, not like the walled-off nothingness that the Guide who orchestrated the attack seemed to exude, but there is also none of what Q normally feels in the presence of other people, noise and thoughts and smells that make them human and alive.  
By her greeting, Q recognises where she comes from, too tired to get the hint from the badge pinned to her lapel.  
“I greet you, Guide,” she tells him, the standard formal address used by a representative of the USGA, the United Sentinel and Guide Alliance. After you being recognised and thus registered as a Guide or Sentinel, most people do not come in contact with the USGA again and it becomes nothing more than another fairly obscure government agency you may only occasionally have to visit to update you records or to gather information on one of the various healthcare or skill training options only available to Guides and Sentinels. As little as people actively engage with the USGA however, it very actively monitors all of its members, and so the appearance of an official is by no means a mere coincidence.  
The woman does not introduce herself or waste time on any more pleasantries. Instead, she looks at Q, unblinking. “I have been called as you have expended considerable amounts of energy today without a bond to rely on,” she says, her facial expression betraying no emotion, neither approval nor disapproval of any kind.  
“This was very dangerous, but I am sure you did it to fulfil your duty.” For some reason, Q feels his eyelids grow heavy. “Rest now, Guide,” he hears her say, but it already sounds far away, almost ethereal, too enticing to resist.  
When he comes to, the first thing he sees is a stark hospital ceiling. The starched sheets on his bed are heavy and he immediately wants to struggle against them but a sudden stab of pain in his head quickly puts that idea to rest. His mouth is dry, too dry to simply ignore his thirst and go back to sleep, but there is no water within reach and no one in the room with him. As Q starts looking for a call button, he hears voices just outside the door to his room, and it is one voice in particular that brings back the memory of the events leading to this.

“There will be a trial.”  
“Is that really necessary?”  
“It is indeed, especially given your line of work.”  
“It is due to this line of work that it happened in the first place. Protection as sacred duty or something like that, isn’t that what his oath was all about?”  
The question is followed by an exasperated sigh.  
“You know quite well that is not how to interpret the oath or you wouldn’t be discussing this with me. The circumstances will of course be taken into account, but a Guide unable to control himself to the extend he has displayed is dangerous at best. With both of you being tasked to protect the populace, we cannot let this stand, as it is just that ability of his that is currently in question.”  
“He did what he had to do.”  
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Bond. Guides are to exercise restraint. Behaviour like that cannot and will not be encouraged. At this point there is only one circumstance under which your colleague can avoid the trial, so if you would like to amend your earlier statement...”  
A pause.  
“I don’t…--”  
Q’s heart clenches at how haltingly the words are spoken, how despairing Bond sounds.  
“I can’t make that claim.”  
Q thinks, hard, but all he remembers is feeling absolute certainty, simply knowing what needed to be done to keep Bond safe and doing it without hesitation.  
He knows what the man talking to Bond is referring to, but his memories do not in any shape or form fit what he has learnt about Guides going feral, ripping apart others in order to protect their bond mates, having to be sedated to to their inability to tell friend from foe, chained to hospital beds like actors in bad exorcism films.  
Q did however kill a man without leave to do so, free from remorse, if he is honest with himself. Of course there will be a trial.

He shivers violently and Bond steps into the room as if on queue, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.  
“How are you feeling?” he asks lowly, only looking Q in the eye for a split second.  
“Tired,” Q answers honestly, “is M…?”  
“Already back at her desk, that stubborn old goat,” Bond huffs, “We lost the Guide without any evidence we could use to identify him, so it’s back to that charming guy you and me met earlier today.”  
Q contemplates this for a moment. “Well, it’s safe to say you’ll have to do without my company this time.”  
He was aiming for light-heartedness, but the words come out surprisingly bitter, startling him and by the look on his face, Bond. It’s awkward, the whole situation eerily familiar to the first time Q confessed a crush to someone, only for it to stay woefully one-sided. The first and only time.  
Despite what M tasked Q with, his and Bond’s partnership will probably end here, and it seems like that’s for the best.  
Still Bond sticks around for when the USGA secretary enters the room and explains the situation to Q, handing him the very official warning in the shape of a letter right there at his hospital bed. Q is suspended from all activities until further notice, and it isn’t until then that he feels the unfairness of the situation keenly. He has agents who depend on him, a whole department under him and by no means impaired to do the job he has done for years, a job he knows no one can do as well as him. It had suddenly become part of his job to take care of a 00 brat, and now he is paying the price.  
The secretary looks mildly put off by the waves of displeasure radiating off Q, as if he weren’t much more than a petulant child. It suddenly reminds Q that has not made an effort to shield any of his emotions from others or vice versa as he usually would, which is vaguely offensive to other guides, but it also makes him realise that with Bond, there hadn’t been any need to do so. It was a freedom Q had certainly never been allowed before, and for the first time it makes him wonder if this is what it means to be bonded, to constantly bask in another’s emotions, never having to hold back.  
The thought immediately hits him harder than the suspension, making him feel the loss of what in another career, under different circumstances, could’ve been his: the possibility of just being himself.


End file.
